A Place to Stand
by Sunbird Riding Shotgun
Summary: Post 4x11. He made it through the job okay but in the aftermath Eliot suffers a flashback.


**Notes: **Written within two hours of when the episode aired because this apparently ate my brain. Some vauge references to the events of my story Cell Number Eight but you don't have to read that to understand this. I also vaugely qoute Word of God (Devil I think) at one point in this. Geek points for anyone who catches it.

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><p><strong>A Place to Stand<strong>

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><p>The funny thing was he didn't see it coming.<p>

The rest of the team? The… thing coming as a surprise to them was par for course. Even after three years they didn't understand his world and he fought harder every damn month to keep it that way.

But he knew himself, or he thought he did.

He might lie to himself to say he was going soft on a team, or that he was getting sloppy in his careful composure of his mind.

But really, it was a reminder, a wake up call like a kick in the ass, that no matter how much he meditated, went through katas, poked and prodded the dark places in his mind because he had to, because he didn't need to count the dead and you couldn't be completely sane after doing everything he's done (to do everything he's done) and if he let his control slip he'd lose the careful balance that kept what sanity he had left in tact.

But the darkness, insanity, was still there, always there, and he might keep it controlled and caged but it was never tamed and he never really knew when it would break free.

He'd been fine on the job. That was the ironic thing. After all the prisons and dungeons and hellholes he'd been in and out of he that was nothing. Food every day, clothes, no physical torture, environmental torture that they had to manufacture instead of wet ground and rats and the ever present threat of malaria that had been just the natural _beauty_ of just one of the prison camps he'd spent six weeks in.

Hell, flush toilets were a luxury he's spent plenty of his adult life without.

Sure, it was unpleasant, and he objected on principle to Hardison complaining about torture when that was technically what he was suffering but it wasn't until the threat to Hardison that there was even the slightest ripple to that calm pool inside of him no one could touch.

Funny. He wasn't sure when it had gone from ice to water.

It was eighteen hours later. He was at Nate's. They were sitting down to dinner and he'd sat down first and Nate had put a glass of something down in front of him and asked him a question.

Eliot blinked up at the figure back lit by the interrogation lamp, felt the world fly out from under him, he didn't remember where he was, couldn't understand what the interrogator was asking him. He gripped the arms of his chair, mind racing to put together a list of all the places he couldn't be judging by his complete incomprehension of the questions compared to the languages he knew or understood the basics of.

A hand touched his arm and he jerked away, his hands were free but he felt weak and shaky. The world around him was spinning. They'd drugged him.

Four. There were four of them. In this condition there were too many. He had to run.

He punched the one who tried to grab him and bolted, finding the door and breaking it down, pausing at the stairs long enough to wrack his brain for any memory that would tell him if he was above or below ground, vauge memories of climbing up the stairs hurting and down the stairs hurting less told him he'd been here longer than he remembered. Drugged. He must be drugged. To keep him docile. He didn't remember the climb bound.

How many times had he tried to escape before? He couldn't afford to fall into an old trap.

Someone called his name out and he recognized it. Nate! Nate was with him again. He wavered, he'd already been at the stairs too long but he couldn't leave Nate behind. He had to get Nate out. Like before.

If they had escaped together already then wh-

He saw Nate down the hall, with a tall dark skinned man holding him.

They were back there.

"Nate!" He shouted, running forward, not trusting his distorted perception to more than shove the man away and grab Nate. "We gotta get to the garage and get the hell out of here."

"Eliot." Nate pulled him back, grabbing his shoulders. "We're in Boston. We're safe. We got out."

Eliot felt the ground beneath him pull in another direction. They had to get out before… "Nate there's no time."

"Eliot. Stop. Look at me." He didn't have time for this but it was Nate. He was off balance and Nate was giving orders and that was exactly the time to obey Nate's orders. Nate would help him get out of here because he couldn't even remember if they were above or below ground. He looked back to Nate, trying to keep himself from shaking too badly. Nate needed him strong even if he couldn't think straight for the knowledge of what was waiting them on recapture. "Do you feel my hand?"

Eliot shook his head, not comprehending the words. "Nate… we have to go."

"Do you feel my hand?"

Eliot struggled for words, struggled to process. Yes. Nate's hand was on his shoulder, his thumb stretched out to press against the open top button of the shirt Eliot was wearing.

The shirt…

"…They took our shirts…" Eliot said, not understanding. Had they stolen clothes? But the men holding them didn't wear shirts like this. "They…"

"Eliot, I need you to tell me what you hear."

He closed his eyes. That made sense. Eliot had acute senses and a damn good memory. He'd taught Nate to pay attention to the clues your hearing could give you.

He listened for running footsteps of guards. None. They hadn't been discovered. There were no guns.

He could hear his own labored breathing, the pounding of his own heart. There was the muffled sound of voices, a bar. Further out he could hear the sound of a fire truck siren, American, probably from the New England area but it was too distant and the sirens were too similar to be entirely sure.

Bar… Siren…

He opened his eyes and saw Nate.

"Easy." Nate said, the tone in his voice was different than Eliot was used to now. It sounded like a long time ago. Back when they were on opposite sides of a line that blurred when they were taken hostage by a common enemy.

Back when Eliot was younger and Sam was still alive.

"Boston." Eliot stated, trying to regain control of his breath.

Nate nodded. "You back here?"

Eliot gave another short nod, not taking his eyes off Nate. His head felt as murky as that supposedly calm place inside of him was. He had this feeling like if he blinked, if he turned too quickly, the world would shatter again.

And if he looked past Nate he knew he'd see the team and they'd see him…

He closed his eyes and breathed, trying to pull it back together, some sound he didn't want to classify escaping him as he thought of just yesterday and Parker's question about why people said you couldn't get the toothpaste back in the tube and how she'd spent an hour working out ways.

They'd seen…

He'd never seen it coming but they all had seen him…

Lightly, ever so lightly, Parker poked his arm. A second later a hand wrapped around the same spot and he knew it was her because he'd recognized the poke and somehow he recognized her hand. Someone drifted closer and he recognized Sophie's perfume before she wrapped her hand around his other arm and they led him together back toward the apartment. He recognized the feel of the wood beneath his shoes even if he didn't open his eyes.

Somewhere nearby Hardison was talking, the words didn't register but the patter of words registered as Hardison so distinctly that something in Eliot eased. There were four presences around him and he recognized them all.

They crossed the threshold into the apartment and the very air told him he was safe. He wasn't in a dungeon. He was home.

He crossed the apartment and they nudged him to sit down in a chair. He could feel the wall to his back but the coolness of a window just to his left.

Quiet. The hands let go, retreated, leaving him.

He sat, for a long minute, catching his breath. He heard the clink of dishware, whispered conversation.

He was safe. He was home. He was missing dinner.

He took a breath and opened his eyes.

The team was sitting around the dinner table, eating, talking quietly. No one was looking at him. No one was staring at him. Hardison held what looked like one of Eliot's ice packs to his face but otherwise there was no hint that anything had happened.

For all the world it looked like any other meal and he'd just gotten up to get something to drink.

He didn't lie to himself. There'd be repercussions from this. He'd have to talk to Nate at the very least. And the other's would probably take time to be reassured he had his head on straight and he should probably take some time to make sure it was.

But that would be tomorrow, or the day after. Nate normally liked to schedule his damage control talks for after the client had been given their bag of money (or whatever) and everyone had been reminded of why they did this.

There'd be damage control, but after three years Eliot had a strange sense that despite all this…

A year ago he'd be worried they'd loose faith in him. They wouldn't trust him to have their backs anymore.

But somehow… this would change things but not their trust in him.

He got to his feet unsteadily and walked over, sitting down, taking a drink of water and telling himself it wasn't poisoned.

Conversation rose to a normal volume and then Nate looked over, and asked. "Want a beer?" Silence.

Eliot took a breath and nodded, forcing a grin. "Yeah. I think I could use a drink."

Parker poked Hardison, asking him if it hurt like she always did to Eliot when he was beat up. Hardison bitched back. Nate went to get the promised beer and Sophie called after him for more wine and Eliot just listened.

The chair (slightly wobbly from being misused), the silverware in his hand (slightly misshapen from an afternoon prepping for undercover roles as spoon benders), the sounds of his team arguing, the very distinctive clink of Nate setting down a beer bottle…

He had a place inside himself, a frozen lake, the surface never broken or disturbed, the ice protecting the water beneath.

He wasn't sure when the ice had melted away or what had drained away the water and left him with this.

But this table, this team, this family, the damn bent fork in his hand…

This would be that calm place inside of him. This would keep him sane.


End file.
